


I'm Just the Devil with Love to Spare

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dubious Consent, Episode Related, Episode: s05e10 Abandon All Hope..., First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucifer gives Sam a gift he never knew he wanted.<br/></p><div class="center">
<br/><img/></div>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Just the Devil with Love to Spare

Jo and Ellen's makeshift funeral pyre is still burning in Bobby's grate when Sam and Dean hit the road again, and for two solid weeks Dean doesn't speak a word. Sam doesn't press him at first. There may be less rocky ground between them lately, but he still doesn't feel right intruding on his brother's grief. Anyway, he's got plenty of grief all his own—Jo and Ellen were a hell of a lot more than just allies, and Sam feels their loss like a rockslide ache in his chest. He's pretty much down with the stoic-silence plan for awhile.

He's less okay with it at the end of those two weeks, when they're still hesitating between hunts and Dean _still_ isn't talking to him. There's no ire in Dean's silence, not like the times they've fought their way to cold shoulders and death glares, but the cloudy numbness is almost worse. Sam still hurts—hell, he still hurts for every single person they've lost along the way—but he knows they have to get their shit together.

If they don't, the Apocalypse will steamroll right over them, and they'll be too busy being _dead_ to find a way to stop it.

He does more than his share of the legwork, and finds them a poltergeist in Laramie, Wyoming. He hopes after that Dean will step up and work with him, but it's like Dean is barely along for the ride, and Sam finally corners his brother outside a gas station just off I-80.

It's probably not the best locale for a Serious Discussion, but when Dean comes out with a Pepsi and a Slim Jim in hand and angles for the driver's seat without so much as a grunt to acknowledge Sam waiting by the pump, Sam finally hits the wall.

"Dean, don't," he says, stepping between his brother and the car.

Dean looks at him blankly.

"I mean it," says Sam. "I miss them, too, but refusing to _talk_ won't bring them back."

"Fuck you," says Dean, but he says it so calmly that the words feel surreal. When he steps deliberately around Sam to get to the car, Sam feels almost lost enough to let him go. What's another hundred miles of silence?

But with every mile that the silence persists, Sam can feel his brother slipping further away. He can't stand by and watch it happen, not when he's already come so close to losing Dean forever, god, how many times now? They've lost enough without losing each other.

As Dean walks past, Sam grunts and throws his arms around his brother, wrapping him up in a tight hug. The angle is all wrong, from behind and to the side, and Dean goes instantly stiff in the circle of his arms. There's a silent hum of anticipation and the potential for violence, but Sam doesn't let go. Eventually the tension slumps out of Dean's shoulders, and Sam hears the thump and sizzle of the Pepsi falling from Dean's fingers.

"Don't you dare shut down on me," Sam whispers, his nose smushed up against Dean's ear. "I can't do this alone." He doesn't say anything about the Apocalypse, because his plea would be true even if the world _weren't_ falling apart around them. He clings, and he shakes a little, and silently begs Dean to hear him.

"Get in the car, Sam," says Dean, and the words sounds tired. Exhausted and achy and not even a little bit numb. His eyes look stormy when Sam lets go and steps back.

Sam grabs the Pepsi from the ground and rounds the front of the car. He slides into the passenger seat and doesn't say a word.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

The poltergeist goes down hard, but they make it out with just a black eye and a sprained wrist between them. Sam's throat is sore on account of yet another near-strangulation, but that's pretty much par for the course—especially where poltergeists are concerned. They've got it down to a science: gather supplies, enter house, save Sam from getting strangled, finish purification ritual. They could write an instruction manual by now, though readers might wonder why Sam getting strangled is such an essential step in the process.

Dean says twelve whole words to him between the house and the motel, and actually suggests they hit the pub up the street for beer and nachos. Which Sam thinks is a great idea once they're both clean and Dean's wrist is wrapped—Dean bitches about not needing the goddamn bandage, but Sam wins that argument with a combination of logic, bullying and finally stealing Dean's wallet.

"No beer unless you let me take care of that," he says, holding the wallet higher than Dean can reach.

"Fucking nursemaid," Dean mutters, but he sits grudgingly on the edge of the bed and lets Sam see to the sprain.

The nachos are salty and messy, possibly the best nachos Sam has ever had, and he watches as Dean wolfs them down like he's actually tasting them. His chest feels full with warm relief, because for the first time in weeks his brother is actually _here_ with him. They don't talk much, but the bar is noisy with other people's chatter, and the lull in their own conversation feels nothing like the oppressive silence that has been driving Sam mad since they left Bobby's.

Sam swallows the last of his beer and waves down the waiter for another.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Most days, Sam wishes they could avoid watching the news. He already knows they screwed up. He doesn't need to hear the talking heads at CNN discussing the sudden increase in unexplained deaths the world over in order to get the message. The Winchesters have their ears to the ground for any useful news—anything they can work with, any lead that might take them to a possible solution for the shitstorm of Armageddon—but for the moment there's nothing they can do but keep moving, keep busy, and try not to get themselves killed.

"Keep the volume down, will you?" Sam groans, sliding under his covers and burying his face in the nearest pillow. "I'm wiped."

"Sure," says Dean, and he must hit mute because the tinny newscaster babble cuts immediately off. Sam doesn't know how Dean can still even be conscious after the day they've had—hunting and a house fire and getting out of Dodge so fast they left Sam's laptop power cord behind. They'll have to get another one before they can use the computer again, but after six straight hours on the road Sam can't even find it in him to care.

He's too goddamn tired.

He figures he'll nod off fast and stay conked through the night; he never does remember his dreams when he's falling asleep this tired. So he's surprised when he blinks awake at two a.m. from a dream so intense it leaves his pulse racing in his chest.

He's more surprised by the content of the dream, and he lies frozen for long moments, blinking wide, panicked eyes at the ceiling in the dark. Dean's breath rolls soft and easy from the other bed, measured and slow with sleep, and rather than calm Sam down it just makes his pulse race faster. The last thing he needs right now is to be _more_ aware of Dean, as he tries to process the bright, vivid images and sensations that cling to him from the dream.

"Fucking hell," he breathes softly, as his fingers clench in the sheets. His dick is hard beneath the fabric of his boxers, maddening friction as he shifts beneath the covers, and all his body wants is to take this business into the bathroom, jerk off and get back to sleep. But hell if he's going to jerk off to a dream about _Dean_ , no matter how bright and hot—no matter how good the imagined memory of his brother's skin beneath his hands.

Bad enough he had the dream in the first place. He's not touching himself when all he can see in his head are Dean's hungry green eyes, Dean's lips parted and swollen, Dean's throat bared in eager submission.

Too bad his hard-on won't subside while those images are at play in his mind.

"God _damn_ it," he mutters, loud enough that Dean mumbles something incoherent in his sleep, and for a moment Sam wonders if he woke his brother up. Because that would be the perfect cap to this winner of a night.

When he's reasonably sure Dean is still out cold, Sam finally stands and heads for the bathroom. The door clicks shut too loud behind him, and the light is so blinding that he turns it right off again. Not like he needs light to take care of this particular problem. He just needs to get it done with and get back to bed.

If he jerks himself off to lurid images of Dean gasping beneath his hands, it's because it's the only expedient thing to do.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam dreams variations on the same theme for upwards of a week, and he finally decides it's not worth freaking out about. So he's got the hots for his brother. So he had _no idea_ he had the hots for his brother until these stupid dreams broke into his sleep. So every day he looks at Dean and has to fight not to flush red when he thinks about all the things he dreamed the night before.

It's nowhere near the worst thing he's has ever dealt with, and as long as Dean doesn't catch on Sam figures it's not a problem. He's getting good at fighting the blush that threatens to stain his cheeks when he catches Dean chewing on a pen cap. He's even getting better at _not_ staring at his brother's mouth every waking moment of the day.

Dean looks at him like he's nuts a couple times, when Sam's been staring too obviously and failed to respond to a simple question. But mostly Dean lets it ride, probably chalks it up to the lingering weirdness of the rift that's still healing between them.

Sam doesn't really care _why_ Dean doesn't call him out on being even freakier than usual, as long as they don't have to talk about it.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Not talking about it is especially key when they're holed up in one place for longer than usual. They could be on a hunt right now, but instead they're camped out in a Motel 6, strategically chosen for its proximity to at least a dozen different fast food joints. They've got notepads and highlighters and sticky tabs, and the complete _Supernatural_ book series spread out across their two beds.

"This shit makes me _seriously_ uncomfortable," Dean whines under his breath, tabbing a page in _All Hell Breaks Loose_. "How can people read this crap? It's none of their goddamn business anyway!"

Sam shrugs, and keeps scanning his eyes along the last couple pages of _What Is and What Should Never Be_. He already tried pointing out that the readers don't know it's _real_ , and it obviously didn't make Dean feel better.

"Plus," Dean grouses, turning a page in what is easily the thickest book in the series, "It sucked enough _living_ this stuff. Why the hell would I want to read it all over again?" His words ring gruff with irritation, but Sam can hear the thickness in his brother's throat. He can see the tightness around Dean's eyes and the tension running across his shoulders, and even if he didn't have some idea about the contents of that particular title, he would probably be able to hazard a guess. Dean looks to be about halfway through the book, and the way his fingers grip the pages too tightly—bending the spine right in two—Sam guesses he's at a low point.

"At least Chuck is a decent writer," Sam hazards, even though it'd almost be better if he were awful. Maybe rereading the books wouldn't feel so much like experiencing these moments all over again if Chuck were a total hack. Dean grunts noncommittally, and Sam reads the last few words and tosses his book aside, reaching for a fresh notepad and the next book in line. _Magnificent Seven_ , the cover says. Sam uncaps his highlighter and settles back against the headboard, heaving a dramatic sigh that's mostly for Dean's benefit.

He reads through the dark-stormy-night prologue of some poor schmuck taking the trash out and getting himself possessed by one of the seven deadlies. There are a couple lines worth highlighting for reference, but mostly it's just depressing—which is pretty much in keeping with the rest of the books—and as he flips from the end of the prologue to chapter one, Sam sighs again and tells himself he can go get takeout once he finishes this book.

He stops thinking about takeout when he sees that chapter one is titled _The Double Mint Twins_.

' _Fucking fuck_ ,' he thinks, and tells himself to put the book down.

Because it's one thing to have recurring, filthy dreams about his brother—and maybe jerk off to them when he's got a moment alone. It's another thing entirely to have his brother's sexual exploits laid out word for goddamn word on the page in front of him. He should set the book aside, or skip ahead a chapter. He should definitely _not_ start reading about himself sitting sexiled in the parking lot, or follow the narrative as it shifts to Dean losing layers of clothing behind the closed curtain across the lot.

This is one of those spots it would really help if Chuck were a _bad_ writer. As it is, Sam feels his skin warming up with every description. It's so easy to imagine all that heat and skin and friction, warm bodies getting acquainted in a creaking motel bed, and Sam swallows hard as the Dean in the book pulls a condom out of thin air.

"The hell are you _reading_ over there, dude?" Dean asks, and Sam yelps and throws the book against the wall. Dean stares at him like the crazy person he is, and Sam stares back long enough to make the moment truly awkward before he manages a forced laugh.

"Nothing," he says, leaning over the edge of the bed to pick the book up off the floor. "The last book made me tense is all." Which is plenty true itself—Sam doesn't like thinking about how close he came to losing Dean to the Djinn. It's just one more near death experience that he'd rather pretend never happened. Dean snorts, but his eyes are sympathetic and a little bit worried as he watches Sam settle back into his vacated spot against the headboard.

"Let me know when you need a break," says Dean. "I'm getting hungry."

"You know, I could do food now," Sam says, too fast to be casual. Dean just nods and sets his own book aside. They get Chinese and bring it back to the room, and go right back to reading. Sam skips ahead a chapter for the time being.

But he comes back to it later, when he's got the room to himself and knows for a fact Dean will be outside with the Impala for a solid hour at least—fiddling with the engine and trying to track down the source of a rattling sound Sam could barely hear while they were driving. He comes back to that chapter, and a few other favorites he's found in the two days since then, and he reads them with a guilty hunger pulsing in his chest.

He has the books packed away before Dean comes back inside, and he's pretty sure his brother doesn't suspect.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Just south of the Iowa-Missouri border, it occurs to Sam that his dreams don't quite feel like _dreams_. They're too vivid for one thing, too coherent for another. When he wakes up to morning and thinks back on the things he dreamed the night before, his thoughts feel more like memory than dreamscape, and he's surprised he didn't notice it sooner.

But they don't feel anything like his visions, either, so maybe it's not worth worrying.

Besides, by then he's enjoying them a hell of a lot more than he should. They're distracting as hell, sure, and Dean would probably disown him and flee the country if he knew what was going on in Sam's head. But Sam falls asleep every night with hungry anticipation smoldering low in his belly.

He'll never have all this with Dean. The dreams aren't a bad consolation prize.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

They're at a dingy place on the outskirts of some town with more churches than bars when Sam loses track of his brother long enough to worry. It's a noisy place—theoretically a bar and grill, but it's a whole lot more bar than grill. The only food items on the menu are hotdogs and cheeseburgers, but there are twenty-seven kinds of beer on tap.

Even twenty-seven beer options get boring when you're drinking alone, though, and after Sam finishes his third glass, he decides enough is enough and goes looking for Dean. There's no sign of him in the main bar, or in the pool nook in back, or in the bathroom when Sam checks there. He's not over by the payphones or loitering around the jukebox, and Sam's just about ready to check on the goddamn roof by the time he ducks outside.

There aren't any buildings close by—closest one's probably half a mile down the road—just gravel and bushes and a whole lot of trees. Sam circles the building and doesn't see anyone in the shadows, so he moves towards the wide, dark spread of the woods instead. His eyes adjust quickly to the encroaching darkness, not that he needs his eyes. When he hears a low groan ahead of him he recognizes the sound instantly as Dean.

It should maybe worry him just how quickly he's sure the noise came from his brother. He probably shouldn't be this familiar with what Dean sounds like doing the kind of thing he's obviously doing right now.

Sam slows his pace and takes cautious steps as he moves further into the tall thicket. He edges closer until the air is thick and dark around him, and finally stops when he catches sight of his brother's unmistakable silhouette leaning back against a tree ahead. There's the indiscernible shape of Dean's random hookup kneeling at his feet, and Sam has just enough light to read the blissed-out expression on his brother's face.

Fuck, he should turn around and leave.

Instead he's rooted to the spot, cock going gradually but inevitably hard in his pants.

Dean curses and gasps, head thumping back against the tree as the unidentified hookup does something creative to his dick, and Sam just about loses it without even touching himself. He can barely decipher the filthy stream of encouragements pouring out of Dean's mouth into the rustling night air, but suddenly he's got his own cock out of his pants and in his hand without even realizing he meant to go for his zipper.

" _Yeah_ ," Dean's voice murmurs on the breeze. "Fuck, just like that."

' _Just like that_ ,' Sam thinks, and pictures his brother on his knees—imagines it's Dean's mouth instead of his own hand sliding firmly along the length of his erection. He pauses to spit in his palm, and then it's even easier to imagine, to summon a memory from last night of Dean's warm, wet lips doing to Sam exactly what Dean is having done to him some twenty feet away.

He comes as silently as he can, biting the knuckles of his free hand to muffle his groan. He wipes his hand on the tree behind him, then on the side of his pants when that's not quite enough to get rid of the sticky evidence of his transgression. Dean is breathing in staccato bursts now, a steady rhythm of sound that signals just how close he is himself.

Sam shouldn't stick around, but he does anyway. The guilt in his chest can't pull him away before he hears the loud cry of Dean's orgasm, escaping on the wind like a gift.

When Dean starts muttering something to his companion about returning the favor, Sam retreats as silently as he can. He orders another beer inside, and nurses it until his brother comes back.

He leaves the drink unfinished, and ignores Dean's worried look as they step back out into the night.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam's dreams that night are still too vivid, same as they always are lately, but they contain a disconcerting lack of naked Dean. The mismatched motel room—itself a generic amalgamation of every room Sam has ever stayed in—shifts and fades until Sam finds himself standing on a pebble-strewn beach. The sun is setting across the water, and fading seagulls fly silhouetted against the pinks and oranges of the sky.

He stares at the colors for a long stretch of moments, and when he turns he finds unwelcome eyes watching him.

"Lucifer," Sam growls, feeling his lip curl up in an immediate snarl. He's torn between two urges: an instinctive and desperate need to run for the horizon, and the overwhelming urge to take a swing and start something. Because seriously. Isn't destroying the world enough? Now the bastard has to interfere with the regularly scheduled programming of Sam's subconscious?

"What are you doing here?" he asks when Lucifer just keeps watching him silently. "You better just be a figment of my imagination. I don't want you in my head."

"Don't worry," says Lucifer. "It _is_ me, but I won't stay long. I just wanted to stop by and say, 'You're welcome.'"

"How can you even be here?" Sam asks, circling slowly until Lucifer is standing between the water and him.

"You're my vessel," Lucifer says with a casual shrug—like it's the most obvious answer in the world. "We have a special connection, you and I. An affinity of sorts."

Sam wants to call bullshit, but the fact that the former angel is standing here in Sam's dreamscape at all is evidence enough that he speaks the truth. Doesn't mean his being here is going to change Sam's mind about the whole consent thing.

"What do you mean, 'You're welcome'?" Sam asks, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. A gull caws loudly to his right, landing on the beach with a spray of sand and the ruckus of wings.

"For the gifts I've been sending you," says Lucifer. He steps forward, carrying a stench of death with him, and his eyes look so hurt, so genuine. "You like them, don't you? I mean, it seemed like you've been enjoying them. I'm sorry if I was mistaken."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Sam asks. If he were having this conversation in the real world he's pretty sure his palms would be sweating right about now.

"The dreams," says Lucifer, and Sam should have goddamn known.

"Fuck you," says Sam, and Lucifer gives him a humoring smile.

"I figured you might not be thrilled they were coming from me," he says, taking another step closer and leaving tide-filled footprints in the sand behind him. "That's why I didn't sign the card. But I thought it was time you knew."

"Knew what?" Sam asks, feeling winded and off-balance.

"We could have that," Lucifer says, and his humoring smile turns into something dark and wicked. "Let me in and I could do away with those pesky inhibitions."

"No," says Sam. The thought makes his blood feel cold and sluggish in his veins. "Dean doesn't want that, and I'm sure as hell not saying yes just so you can try and convince him. You'd probably brainwash him or something. No thanks."

"Oh!" says Lucifer, and his eyes go wide in a mockery of surprise. "Didn't you know, Samuel? He _does_ want you. He's wanted you for years."

"Bullshit," Sam retorts instantly, but his dreamed-up heartbeat falters in his chest.

Lucifer's face slides quickly from mocking to somber, and his voice is husky and deep when he says, "I was trapped in that cage a long time, Sam. I had nothing to do but watch the world go by and wait for my opportunity. When you and your brother came along, I watched you both _very_ closely." He takes one step closer, then a second. A third puts him eye to eye with Sam, so close that Sam can smell the underlying tinge of sulfur on his breath. "Trust my assessment on this one, Samuel. He wants to be a hell of a lot more than a brother to you." There's something in the unfocused intensity of his tone that tells Sam that this, at least, is the truth.

"Anyway," Lucifer says with a shrug, mood suddenly lightening as he turns and starts walking away down the beach. "Think about it. You know where to find me if you change your mind." Sam _doesn't_ know where to find him, but he suspects geographic location isn't really what the angel means.

He doesn't dream of Dean that night, and when he wakes to a drab, gray morning, he can feel the dissatisfaction right down to his bones.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Sam sits on his newfound revelation about Dean's feelings for three days, and by the time he hits Sunday without another of Lucifer's dreams he realizes he can't just sit around waiting for his brother to show his hand.

He'll be waiting until well past doomsday if he expects Dean to make the first move.

He bides his time after that, not so much on purpose, but because he's got no goddamn idea how to broach the subject. ' _Hey, Dean. Satan told me you're jonesing for me. And I've been wanting to jump you hard lately. Maybe we should do something about it._ ' That would certainly go over smoothly. Assuming 'smoothly' meant with a broken nose and a view of the Impala's taillights disappearing around the nearest corner.

So he's kind of just playing disastrous possibilities over in his head as they skirt discreetly around towns holding too many funerals, finding motels as far on the outskirts as they can. They don't see many people on the roads between, and the ones they do see are moving fast and terrified, packing up and driving away in the hopes that being somewhere else will make the world look better.

Sam's heart aches for the futility of those travelers' hope.

They're two hours out from Deadwood, South Dakota when they stop at a scenic overlook on I-90—as if anything along this stretch of road counts as scenic. There's a hot shower and a possible hunt waiting for them in town, but they've been on the road for seven hours. They both need to stretch their legs and stand upright for awhile, and the Impala sits tucked safely in the empty gravel lot as Sam and Dean lean on a ragged fence and stare at the horizon.

Sam gives up on the horizon pretty quickly, and watches Dean instead.

His brother is beautiful in profile, features masculine and delicate all at once, and Sam stares like he's trying to memorize them. He gets away with it for five minutes before Dean notices and gets fidgety, another ten before Dean finally looks at him with a quirked eyebrow. The eyebrow eloquently conveys ' _What the fuck, dude_?' And Sam could shrug and brush it off, but he already knows that's not what he's going to do.

He tilts his head to the side, narrowing his eyes in a show of consideration and then pushes off the fence to circle behind his brother.

Dean tracks him with just his eyes until he can't anymore and has to turn around to follow Sam's movements. Sam smiles and takes a tentative step closer, watching Dean's face cloud in confusion. He takes another step, and another, until he's right up in his brother's space, leaving Dean backed against the fence with fingers tightening on the splintered wood.

Dean looks like he wants to say something, and his eyes are rabbit-wide and locked with Sam's. But he doesn't speak, and neither does Sam, and for a long moment they stand too close together just feeling the tension on the air.

When Sam finally closes the distance and kisses Dean, he decides his brother tastes like heaven.

Heaven is a relative term, and in this case apparently means the lingering flavor of Skittles and soda on his brother's tongue. Sam wonders if you can get a sugar high from kissing, as he takes Dean's face in his hands and angles to take the kiss deeper. He licks his way into Dean's mouth and watches his brother's eyes drift closed before he lets his own lids drop. It's hungry and eager and perfect, right up until Dean shoves him away.

Sam's not expecting the push, so he ends up on his ass in the dirt, watching Dean jump the fence and disappear along the dusty, gradual incline on the other side.

When Dean comes back two hours later, he's wearing a forced façade of casual calm. He hops the fence again and smacks Sam's shoulder on his way by, angling for the car.

"You coming or what?" he barks, and Sam's got no choice but to follow.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

"You're really just going to pretend it didn't happen?" Sam asks when they've checked into a place just outside Lead. Dean asked for one room, same as always, but he hesitated just long enough that Sam knows he was considering other arrangements.

"That's the general plan," Dean says, giving Sam a meaningful glare. "Do you want Chinese or Mexican for dinner? I'm feeling like tacos myself."

"Neither," says Sam, and he locks the motel room door behind him, clicking the deadbolt and sliding the chain into place. When he turns around, Dean is eyeing him warily.

"Sam," says Dean. "Look, I like a good prank as much as the next guy, but—"

"It wasn't a prank, Dean," says Sam, crossing the room with carefully measured steps. Dean backs away at his approach, a flicker of recognition in his eyes that says he's not as clueless as he's pretending to be, and Sam keeps coming. "Don't play dumb when we both know exactly what's going on here." He finally stops moving when Dean's got no further to go in his retreat, and Sam crowds his brother against the wall, biting his own lower lip as he fights not to stare at his brother's mouth.

"Maybe you could enlighten me, then" says Dean, but his cheeky tone rings false. His voice is tight with uncertainty and anticipation, and Sam would swear he sees a spark of hunger behind his brother's eyes.

He thinks about drawing this out—egging Dean on until his brother has no choice but to admit his interest aloud. But they could be here for hours if he does that—maybe longer. Dean's managed to keep his mouth shut until now, and a little nagging probably won't change his mind. So Sam smiles instead, feeling heat brighten his face as he cups his fingers around Dean's jaw line and traces a thumb over his brother's enticingly plump lower lip.

"I know you've wanted me for years, Dean," Sam says. "There's not much point pretending you haven't." The words make Dean's eyes widen in shocked disbelief, and Sam feels his brother's pulse speed beneath his fingers.

" _How_?" Dean whispers. "You've never—… How did you—?"

"Does it matter?" Sam asks, not wanting to lie to his brother outright. "It's just you and me here, Dean. You and me and the things we want to do to each other."

"It's not right, Sam," Dean says, but his voice comes out raspy and weak. Sam just smiles, and leans forward to claim his brother's mouth in a kiss.

Dean doesn't resist when Sam's tongue teases across the seam of his lips, or when Sam takes the kiss deep and intimate and presses his body flush against Dean's. Sam moans into Dean's mouth as his hands drag his brother closer, and the impossible heat between their bodies fills Sam's mind with deliciously dirty ideas.

He's reluctant to put any space at all back between them, but he needs room to trail a hand down Dean's chest, down his stomach to the fly of his jeans, and he makes a satisfied sound low in his throat as he undoes the button and goes for the zipper. He's just reaching inside—just getting his hand around the boxer-clad bulge of Dean's cock—when Dean grabs his wrist and forces him still.

" _No_ ," Dean growls, dragging his face away and gasping air. "Fuck, Sam, stop!"

Sam holds perfectly still, but he doesn't pull his hand back. Dean's cock throbs against his palm, and Dean's hand on his wrist slides lower, tries for a better grip. Tries to gently dislodge him, but Sam isn't to be dissuaded. Not yet. Not until he's said his piece.

"You don't really want me to stop, Dean," Sam says, pressing kisses along Dean's jawline and down the length of his throat. He can feel the rapid ricochet of Dean's heartbeat beneath his lips when he pauses over the pulse point. "How long have you been fantasizing about this anyway? How many times have you looked at me and imagined being pinned to the wall just like this?" Dean's silence is damning, and Sam smiles against his brother's throat. He counts to five before he tightens his grasp, fabric and flesh slipping against his palm, and Dean gasps a breathless curse into the electrified air between them.

"Sammy, please," says Dean, tightening his grip on Sam's hand hard enough to give him pause and stop his renewed ministrations. "Stop and think for a second. We can't _do_ this."

' _Why not_?' Sam wants to ask, but he knows what his brother will say. It's incest, it's wrong, it's a bad goddamn idea when they're already wrapped too tightly around each other at every goddamn turn. Sam knows those reasons already. He just doesn't care. So instead of asking the obvious question, he pulls back to look Dean in the eye. He blinks and lets every ounce of his hunger and hope and fear shine through his eyes. He lets his brother see just how badly he needs this, and then Sam says in his softest, scaredest voice, "Are you saying you don't want me?"

"Sam," Dean breathes, and he looks just about ready to shatter.

"I'm already a freak, Dean," says Sam, and starts brushing his thumb back and forth along Dean's cock. It's an impossibly gentle touch, careful caress of friction over the erection-stretched fabric of Dean's boxers. "I know," Sam continues, "I don't deserve you. I can never be good enough, not after all the things I've done."

Dean closes his eyes and chokes back a conflicted sound, and Sam gives his whole hand a squeeze, gentle at first, then firmer, feeling the heavy heat of Dean's cock against his palm.

"I'll stop if you really want me to," Sam whispers, and the shakiness in his voice isn't an affectation. When Dean opens his eyes, Sam meets him with an open, vulnerable gaze, and asks, "Do you want me to stop?"

" _No_ ," Dean groans, and this time when Sam kisses him Dean _really_ kisses him back. Dean's fingers thread through Sam's hair, and Dean's whole body comes alive with an eager, desperate energy. He rubs encouragingly against Sam's hand, and shimmies right out of his jeans and boxers when Sam finally gives him space.

He lets Sam strip him down, and waits with ravenous eyes as Sam sheds his own clothes one impatient layer at a time. When Sam urges him toward the bed, Dean lets himself be pressed into the mattress while Sam happily makes himself at home between his thighs.

He wants to fuck Dean right this second, but he didn't come quite that prepared. He doesn't want to hurt his brother, so he settles for establishing a slick, heavy rhythm between them, precome and friction and impossible heat as Sam takes both their cocks in one wide palm.

" _Fuck_ ," Dean breathes as Sam jacks them both to the edge and over it.

When Sam falls asleep, he still has Dean in his arms.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Guilt hits him quick and hard when Sam wakes up alone in bed the next morning. The air feels chill and uninviting, and Dean's absence with no explaining note tells him that he pushed his brother too far last night. Too fast. He took too much, and as soon as Dean comes back from getting breakfast or coffee or whatever the hell it is that he's using as an excuse, Sam will apologize and they can start over.

He brushes his teeth while he waits, and gets dressed with sleepy movements.

He's got one leg in his pants when he realizes Dean's duffel is missing.

" _No_!" he shouts to the empty room, and hurriedly finishes pulling on his jeans as he rushes to the window. The Impala is gone from its spot, a smear of skidded tire tracks visible that Sam's pretty sure wasn't there when they pulled in yesterday. He tries to call Dean's cell, but of course his brother doesn't pick up.

He's yanking a t-shirt over his head, already heading for the yellow pages in search of the nearest bus station when his phone rings. He dashes for the table where he set it, but it's not Dean calling him. It's Chuck. He almost doesn't answer it, but pragmatics and the need to stop the Apocalypse win out.

"He's on his way to Bobby's," says Chuck before Sam even has a chance to say hello. "And you don't want to go after him right away. Trust me. Just… give him a few days."

"You knew all along, didn't you," Sam realizes, voicing the revelation aloud. The awkward silence lingering on the phone line is answer enough. " _Chuck_ ," he growls. It sounds a lot more threatening than he means it to.

"I never wrote it into the books," Chuck mumbles, and even through the tinny reception Sam can hear the awkward discomfort in his voice. "Didn't think the publishing world was ready for… um… _that_."

' _Oh fuck_ ,' Sam thinks. Chuck doesn't just _know_. He's seen it. Every moment. Including last night, which makes Sam suddenly feel about as uncomfortable as Chuck sounds.

"Is he okay?" Sam asks, trying not to think about it.

"That's… not really my business, Sam."

Sam snorts and mutters, "Like _anything_ about our lives isn't your business at this point."

"Yeah, well. Um. The truth is I don't know if he's okay. He's kinda messed in the head right now. But I saw myself calling you about it, so I'm calling you about it, and now I'm going to go drink myself into a stupor. That all right with you?"

"Sure. Thanks, Chuck," says Sam, because he doesn't really know where else to go with that.

"No problem," says Chuck, and hangs up before Sam can even bid goodbye.

Sam drops onto the edge of the bed and stares at his phone for a moment, then tosses it aside and flops back across the mattress.

It looks like he's got nothing to do but wait.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

Dean texts him on day three to let Sam know he's still alive, and calls on day six to say he's on his way back.

"You still in Lead?" he asks.

"No," says Sam. "I took a bus to Spearfish. Didn't want to stay in one place too long."

"Good," says Dean. "I'm on my way."

If Sam didn't already know that his brother's been at Bobby's, the time it takes Dean to make the drive would confirm it. Besides, where else do they ever go when they need to regroup? Sam idly wonders what Dean told the man to explain his solo presence on Bobby's doorstep.

"Hey," says Dean as he steps over the threshold into Sam's room. He eyes the single, queen-sized bed and gives Sam a look, but Sam just shrugs and doesn't bother explaining himself. He didn't get it to try and be clever. He got it because he didn't know how long 'a few days' would actually entail, and it didn't make sense to pay for two beds if he was going to be wasting another week in his own company.

"Hey," says Sam, shutting and locking the door. "Want a beer?"

"Sure," says Dean, but even after Sam hands him one—room temperature, because the mini fridge in the corner doesn't work—he just stands there in the center of the room looking lost.

"Dean, look," Sam says with a sigh, taking a seat at the ragged-edged table by the window. "We have to talk, but it doesn't need to be now, okay? You're probably tired from your drive, let's just go for a burger or something." Because Sam's had some time to think during the past few days, and when he applies logic to the situation, he doesn't like the odds that Dean is going to tell him to go fuck himself. He'd rather put that conversation off as long as possible.

"No, we can talk now," says Dean, and perches stiffly on the foot of the bed. "We _should_ talk now." His position puts him a bare foot and a half from the table, close enough that if Sam reached out and leaned forward he could probably get a hand on Dean's knee. Sam focuses instead on opening a new bottle of beer for himself and picking at the label instead of drinking it.

"I'm sorry," he says without even looking at Dean. "I didn't mean to screw us up. I just… I've been having these dreams about you, and I got a little obsessed." It wouldn't be the first time obsession clouded his judgment and made him take the fast, easy, stupid path. Hell, it wouldn't even be the first time that kind of obsession was aimed at Dean, though it's definitely the first time it's had this particular flavor.

Dean nods like that makes sense, and takes a long, slow swallow of beer. Sam tries to not to stare at the way his brother's throat moves, but he fails, and Dean catches him out, and why even pretend it's anything but what it is? Sam purses his lips and shrugs, and takes a sip of his own beer.

"You were right," Dean says quietly, and the words have the air of confession. "I _have_ wanted you for years." He stares at Sam with shadowed eyes. "But wanting and doing aren't the same thing. You weren't ever supposed to know." Sam sort of figured that part for a given. He wants to say something useful here, but his tongue feels like it's glued to the roof of his mouth and his throat doesn't want to work right.

"Anyway, point's kinda moot," Dean says with a shrug. "You _do_ know." He doesn't mention the part where Sam clearly wants him back. He seems to be stuck on his own failed discretion.

"So what do we do about it?" Sam asks, leaning closer despite himself. He stays seated by force of will, but it's a difficult feat.

"You're my brother," Dean points out unnecessarily, but he finally _looks_ at Sam, and the expression in his eyes is somehow shattered and hopeful at the exact same time. "I can't just step up and decide to be okay with that."

Sam doesn't see why not. It's not like it was that hard for _him_ to do, and he hasn't had nearly as much time as Dean to think about it.

"But you could," Sam insists softly. "Dean, _we_ could. Who's going to stop us?"

"It's wrong," says Dean, but he sounds like he's not really buying into that theory himself. There's grudging defeat in his eyes as he says, "But 'm not strong enough to fight it anymore."

For a second Sam can't process the words—and for a moment after that he can't believe his ears. But Dean is watching him with careful eyes, wide and gauging, and Sam didn't imagine it. For all of two seconds he's got no idea what to do.

Then Sam ducks forward out of the chair and hits his knees hard, landing at Dean's feet and getting a hold of his brother's collar to drag him down into a kiss. It's hot and frantic, all clutching hands and exploring tongues, and it's not until Sam pulls back—breathing hard and wanting more—that he realizes his knee feels wet. He glances down and realizes Dean must have dropped his bottle in his rush to get hold of Sam, because the beer has emptied onto the carpet and soaked into Sam's jeans.

Sam couldn't care less. He doesn't plan on staying in them long anyway.

"Wait," he says, sense momentarily reasserting himself. He doesn't want to stop— _god_ no—but there's a small corner of something unfinished between them, and Sam has to fix it before this will feel right.

"What is it?" Dean asks, instantly picking up on Sam's wary hesitation. He looks about ready to bolt, and Sam sets his hands on Dean's thighs to keep him still—it's not enough to prevent his brother's flight if he means it, but it's enough to make a point.

"I never answered you when you asked me how I knew," says Sam, and his eyes hold steadily, questioningly on Dean.

"I just figured I talked in my sleep or something."

"No. Dean, I…" God, Dean is going to be pissed. They've been doing so well at being honest lately, and then Sam had to go and keep something like this to himself. "Someone told me."

"Someone," Dean repeats skeptically. His eyes go distant for a moment, and Sam can tell he's running a quick inventory—trying to figure out who could possibly know that would say something to Sam.

"Lucifer," Sam says on a ragged whisper. That stops Dean up short. "Dean, those dreams I was having… they weren't just dreams."

"Visions?" Dean asks, alarm spreading quickly across his face.

"No," Sam says. "At least, I don't think so. He said they were a gift. And then he told me about you."

" _Christ_ , Sammy," Dean mutters, and shoves to his feet. Sam's hands fall aside, and he watches his brother pace a jagged path across the carpet. "And _now_ is when you tell me? How the hell's he getting into your dreams?"

"I don't know," Sam admits. "But it doesn't seem like he can do very much. If he had a stronger move to make, he would've done it by now."

"Maybe," is all Dean will concede. But his shoulders slump, and the tension drains away as quickly as it erupted.

"Dean, think about it," says Sam. "If Lucifer could get into my head and do actual damage, do you really think he'd waste his time playing matchmaker and trying to _bribe_ me into saying yes?"

"You still having the dreams?" Dean asks carefully. It takes Sam a moment to realize that Dean is trying to figure out if the freaky dreams are affecting his judgment.

"No," says Sam. "Not for weeks. When I didn't go for the carrot he stopped dangling it entirely."

"Good," says Dean, and scrubs a hand across his face. "Christ, Sammy, don't keep that shit to yourself next time." ' _Don't we have enough trust issues between us_?' his eyes say when Sam can finally see them again. But his shoulders are still slumped forward in resignation, and there's no tension left in his body. Sam knows he's already been forgiven for this one, and while he doesn’t know exactly why, he's got a feeling the subject matter of this particular secret is earning him some leeway. Surely Dean can sympathize with the conundrum of not wanting to admit to having a crush on his brother.

"I won't," Sam promises. "If anything else happens I'll tell you everything. Every stupid little detail. You'll be begging me to shut up."

"Thanks," Dean says dryly. And for all that he looks completely exhausted, there's a finally a hint of humor in his eyes. Sam gives a small, experimental smile, and is relieved when the corner of Dean's mouth twitches upwards in response.

"Dean," Sam says, kind of wishing they could just leave off here instead. "Are we okay?"

"Why wouldn't we be?" asks Dean. Sam recognizes it for the feint it is.

"I'm serious," he says, trying to keep the exasperation out of his voice. He's got a feeling they're _not_ okay—has had it since he woke up to find his brother and the Impala gone—but he needs Dean to give him a straight answer. Dean locks him with a considering look, weighty and warm, and Sam does his best not to fidget.

"I don't know," Dean finally admits. "But we will be. Okay? I promise."

It's a ludicrous thing to promise, but Sam's relieved anyway. Dean watches as Sam stands, and he doesn't shy away when Sam approaches. He lets Sam kiss him and then drag him into a hug so tight it squeezes the air out of them both.

They share the bed that night, and Sam stays pressed protectively against Dean's back, breathing in his brother's clean, safe scent until he finally drifts off.

For once he doesn't mind the lack of dreams.


End file.
